I started progesterone yesterday morning in preparation for our upcoming cycle. The doctor asked if I needed any more medication and I laughed, saying I had just refilled everything before we had the miscarriage. I was good to go!
On the day I saw there was no heartbeat I came home. The house was still and silent as the cats enjoyed their late morning naps. In an eery calm I walked around my house, head held high, and gathered every trace of pregnancy – the boxes of medication, the new and used pregnancy tests, the sheets of instructions for the FET and then pregnancy, the huge pack of panty liners I bought to combat the gross discharge of a medicated early pregnancy, the two pathetic ultrasound photos. I shoved them all in a plastic tub and put it on an empty shelf in the basement.
It’s been there ever since. Tucked between unused camping gear and auto parts for the broken jeep in our driveway. When I go down to the basement to do laundry I never look at that wall. I never walk too close to that box. That box is dead to me.
Yesterday I had to open the box, though. I had to rummage to the bottom where the progesterone was. I had to move the manilla envelope that was supposed to contain 9 months of ultrasound photos and pregnancy documentation. I had to pull out the medicine that I would refer to as “Pip’s breakfast, lunch and dinner.” I was not expecting this to rip my heart open all over again, but it did.
All these horrible emotions I have tried to hide under diets, hair styles, sewing and fancy art for my house came racing back.
Last night I dreamt I was pregnant and didn’t know how far along I was. I started to go into labor but knew it was too soon. I was utterly alone with no husband or family. I just kept driving from hospital to hospital, unsure where to go. Then the baby stopped kicking in my womb.
This morning I feel like my baby is dead all over again and I’m not sure if I’m ok.